


(I Will) Remember your Name

by saraubs



Series: Tumblr Fics [3]
Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Gladiator AU, Gladiators, M/M, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:39:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2390327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saraubs/pseuds/saraubs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forced onto the sands to pay for his crimes against the Empire (also see: avenging his family), Derek just fights to unleash the anger, not caring if he lives or dies. Well, that is, until he comes face to face with a certain smart-mouthed body slave, and finds there are still some things worth fighting for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(I Will) Remember your Name

The sounds of the fight echo loudly through the ludus, and Stiles skitters around the walls as quickly as he can. He’s never been this close to the fights before, and his usual spot on the balcony behind his Dominus looks comfortable…and safe. 

It’s not like this is the first time he’s run his mouth. His position as body slave grants him more leniency than most of the common slaves, but he knows better than to push his luck around his Domina. Still, he’s sure that it’ll be fine, he’ll just take a quick look around and find a nice, friendly corner to cower in until someone from the villa comes down to – 

“Greetings, little lamb.” The gruff voice is so close that Stiles can feel the hot breath against the back of his neck. The can smell the sour breath over the already overwhelming stench of the training area. He wonders how long since most of these men have bathed, and decides it’s probably better not to ask. Instead, he just takes a deep breath, and turns slowly. 

It’s one of the gladiators. He’s a werewolf for sure, and at least three times the size of any man Stiles has ever interacted with. The stench of him – dirt, sweat, and blood – this close is almost enough to make Stiles double over. Still, he keeps his face impassive, his posture the very picture of meek obeisance. 

“You must be lost.” The gladiator’s mouth curls into a feral smirk, and Stiles is sure he can see a glint of fang underneath. A dirty hand climbs along his thigh, resting right at the hem of his tunic. 

“I would not be so bold, were I you.” A second gladiator – an Alpha, Stiles knows, from the deep red of his eyes – steps out from the shadows. His dark hair is long, ending in curls around his ears. It’s the True Alpha, Stiles realizes with a quick jolt, pride of his Dominus’s ludus. Stiles has been present for all of his fights, and has never seen him lose. Scott looks at him, and smiles warmly. The smile settles Stiles frantic heart, if only a little, and he is grateful. “That’s the Dominus’s own body slave.”

“And what do you think,” the gladiator asks, gripping Stiles’ thigh even tighter, “the Dominus’s little toy is doing wandering about the ludus?” 

Scott looks at Stiles expectantly, and he forces himself to speak. “Sometimes my mouth gets the better of me.” 

“A fact which I’m sure our Dominus would agree warrants a demonstration,” the gladiator says, pushing Stiles to his knees. Scott starts to rush forward, but a tall, slender ludus slave grabs his arms, whispering urgently under his breath. 

Stiles stomach rolls and he knows this is what his Domina must have expected. The men – the wolves¬ – who train down here will chew him up and spit him out, and there’s nothing he can do to fight back. He’s helpless, alone, and completely unsurprised that no one is willing to step forward to help him. In fact, he’s sure that many of them will stay to watch the show – or join, if that’s to their liking. He tries to clear his mind, think of better things, when a gate crashes open and a body lands in a heap in the middle of the room, blowing heaps of sand everywhere. 

The gladiator drops Stiles unceremoniously and moves immediately in the opposite direction. The rest of the room clears in a matter of seconds; even Scott gets pulled out by his twitchy friend, yelling out for Stiles to move as he disappears from view. 

Stiles, who’s too busy trying to tamper his relief and stay upright to realize what’s going on around him, doesn’t look up until he hears a low, rumbling growl. When he turns, there is another were in front of him, doubled over with a long arrow through one leg. His eyes are ice blue, and he’s dripping blood from various wounds. The fights are always bloody, but it seems more like a game from up in the stands. It never seems this real. Bile threatens to rise again, but Stiles can’t stop himself from moving closer. 

The were – he must be new, because Stiles has no idea of his name – snarls, but he can’t move properly. Stiles reaches out and puts his hand on the injured leg, trying to work up the courage to pull out the arrow. 

“Apologies,” he mutters under his breath, steeling himself for the inevitable sound of rending flesh. He pulls, as hard as he can, and then throws himself backward before the werewolf can pin him. The arrow is slick with blood, and he lets it roll onto the dry sand. The werewolf’s wound closes immediately, and Stiles looks on with morbid fascination. Would that his own wounds healed with the same expediency. When the were doesn’t rise, he edges forward again, reaching out to lay his hand on the fallen warrior’s cheek. 

He’s treated to another flash of blue eyes, but the growling has stopped. The wolf seems to have realized that Stiles was only trying to help. Stiles wipes a little blood from the corner of the gladiator’s eye, dusting it away with the aid of the hot sand. “What is your name?”

“I have no name,” the gladiator barks harshly. His voice is ragged, but not as deep as Stiles had expected. “They have stripped it from me, like all else.” 

Stiles shakes his head, smiling softly at the gladiator. “There are two things that even the Romans cannot take,” he whispers, running his hand down until it rests on the gladiator’s shoulder. “Your spirit and your name. They belong to you only, and you must never relinquish them, lest you become truly lost.” 

The were turns to face Stiles, but the harsh voice of their Dominus echoes through the ludus before he can reply. “Stolisus,” he says, addressing Stiles by his slave-name. “You will make your way to my rooms at once. Upon my return I expect you to be clean and prepared.” 

Stiles scrambles to his feet, and the gladiator rises slowly behind him. “Yes, Dominus,” he says, bowing his head. “As you command.” 

The gladiator watches him until he’s out of sight, cursing himself for not asking for his true name in return. The warmth of the slave’s touch lasts long past his departure from the ludus, and his scent provides a small source of comfort in the new, hostile environment.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on Tumblr! I'm always open to prompts :)
> 
> enterleloup.tumblr.com


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